


Doctor Who and the Silver Streak

by MairzyGoats



Category: American Doctor Who (Alternate Universe), Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Silver Streak - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MairzyGoats/pseuds/MairzyGoats
Summary: A retelling of one of Gene Wilder's most daring adventures during his tenure as Doctor Who on ABC.  The Doctor is on a train, and he's in for the ride of his life!  Witness to a murder and framed for another, he's got to stop this runaway zephyr before it reaches Chicago, and along the way rescue Sarah Jane and save the mysterious Einstein Papers.  Guest stars Richard Pryor and Jill Clayburgh, and featuring Patrick McGoohan as one of the Doctor's oldest enemies.Based on the original by Colin Higgins.
Relationships: The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Sarah Jane Smith
Kudos: 2





	Doctor Who and the Silver Streak

####  _ Foreword: Another Time, Another Place _

In another universe, not entirely unlike our own, the science fiction television series known as  _ Doctor Who _ did not premiere in November of 1963 on  _ BBC1 _ , but instead began humbly as a small-time serial that same year on  _ NBC _ , and, though set back by network changes and tumultuous format issues, became a staple of American sci-fi TV, and would last through seven Doctors Who until 1989, with an unsuccessful but still beloved reboot featuring a new Eighth Doctor Who in 1996. Thanks to a strong international cult following and the influence of actor Nicolas Cage,  _ Doctor Who _ returned to the airwaves in 2005, and has now brought viewers the exciting adventures of thirteen different Doctors.

In 1974, following commercial success in several acclaimed comedies, actor Gene Wilder was chosen to succeed Vincent Price in the role of “Dr. Who”, the mysterious benevolent force from beyond time who helps humanity against that which seeks its end. The show by then had transformed from a half-hour series on NBC to a longform serial on ABC, allowing for established Vincent Price to continue working on projects throughout the world, and providing a much-needed uptick to the show’s ratings and extra share to the ABC movie slot it filled. Production would begin strong, pumping out stories quickly to start, but slowed down over time to about one to two films a year. Said Wilder in his memoir, “We had started working on two and three and four at a time in the beginning. Vincent Price, brilliant as he is, would be working here and there all over the world, and he didn’t really start working on a  _ Who _ show until he materialized on set. Now, when he did, he commanded that production and to his credit, and in more ways than one, he was Dr. Who. But when we started--after they exhausted the pool of scripts leftover from his tenure--they had me in with them, working on new scripts. I was calling Mel [Brooks] night after night and at one point it was a shouting match over the party line that got so heated that I hung up the phone and unplugged it for a week. The next time we met we devised, purely out of love for one another, that instead of strangling ourselves over it we would convince the producers to take the combined budget of three and roll it into one. With that we could get better locations, better guest stars, better scripts, and a much happier cast and crew, which, we promised, would translate on screen. Somehow or another it worked, and we started doing about one a year, and Mel and I haven’t tried killing one another since.”

Wilder would portray the Doctor with his trademark straight-powderkeg sense of comedic timing, and under executive producers the likes of Norman Lear and Mel Brooks at the helm (along with very strong influence from Wilder himself), and with some very high-profile guest stars such as Madeline Kahn and Richard Pryor,  _ Doctor Who _ would carry American fans across the 70s, through moonshots and presidential scandals and oil crises. After Ronald Reagan took office--and largely in reaction to negative press surrounding  _ Stir Crazy _ and the return of inflamed guest star Richard Pryor to the show--ABC decided not to renew the contracts of Wilder and Co., opting to instead reformat the program from longform back to episodic and proceeded to cast the then-unknown Kyle MacLachlan as a much younger Dr. Who, who would, in their minds, be more representative of a younger, hipper, more executive youth, the move described in  _ Variety _ as “wrenching  _ Who _ from its zany, wooden nostalgia and bringing it into the 80s, with a new Dr. Who whom the producers have described as a younger, hipper  _ Mannix _ .” ( _ Variety _ , September 1980)

Gene Wilder’s Dr. Who traveled far and wide, from Victorian England, to the Old West, to the Renaissance, and to the not-so-distant future and beyond in such stories as  _ Young Morbius’s Brain _ ,  _ The Man Who Spoke To His Plants _ ,  _ Space Ark _ ,  _ Mona Lisa’s Crooked Teeth _ ,  _ The Planet of Pirates _ , and  _ Stir Crazy _ . The manic spark that had begun with  _ Willy Wonka _ flourished in the  _ Who _ films of the 70s, and created some of the most brilliant science fiction and fantasy of all time inspiring many more to come.

To celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of  _ Doctor Who _ , several novelizations of acclaimed stories were reprinted along with new stories featuring all the Drs. Who. This particular story comes from the middle period of Wilder’s tenure, where he was at the height of his powers.

_ Doctor Who - The Doctors _

First Doctor: Burgess Meredith (NBC, 1963-1966)   
Second Doctor: Dick Van Dyke (NBC, 1966-1969)   
Third Doctor: Vincent Price (ABC, 1969-1974)   
Fourth Doctor: Gene Wilder (ABC, 1974-1980)   
Fifth Doctor: Kyle MacLachlan (ABC, 1981-1983)   
Sixth Doctor: Christopher Walken (ABC, 1984-1986)   
Seventh Doctor: Tony Shaloub (ABC, 1987-1989)   
Eighth Doctor: Jeff Goldblum (FOX, 1996)   
Ninth Doctor: Nicolas Cage (FX, 2005)   
Tenth Doctor: Sam Rockwell (FX, 2005-2010)   
Eleventh Doctor: Donald Glover (FX, 2010-2013)   
Twelfth Doctor: Bryan Cranston (FX, 2014-2017)   
Thirteenth Doctor: Felicia Day (Hulu, 2018- )

  
ABC Sunday Night Movie - The Gene Wilder Years:

  * Space Ark (1974)
  * Genesis of the Dayleks (1974)
  * The Evil Planet (1974)
  * The Martian Pyramids (1974)
  * A Town of Rhinoceroses (1974)
  * Dr. Wholmes (1975)
  * How Not to Enter Politics (1975)
  * The Lonely Lighthouse on Plymouth Rock (1975)
  * The Man Who Spoke to His Plants (1976)
  * The Silver Streak (1976)
  * Young Morbius's Brain (1977)
  * The Planet of Pirates (1977)
  * Mona Lisa's Crooked Teeth (1978)
  * The Doctor and the Gunslinger (1979)
  * Stir Crazy (1980)
  * Shada (1980)  




* * *

#####  _ The Train _

On and on the cars clicked and clacked, travelling miles of open country upon hard iron tracks. In days gone by, travel by train was the pinnacle of cross-country transit. The trains had linked the continent from east to west and had brought America's countryside and coasts closer together, and in so doing had made travel from one part of a city to another a breeze, especially with the window down. Generations passed, and with the arrival of the twentieth century came the Wright Brothers and Henry Ford, and Americans slowly let the trains out of their lives, and the click and clack became part of the background noise. The Great Train was only robbed in the old days, the mystere of travel by rail was left to mystery novels, and the glory of the locomotive was after a time only found in such indignant romances as Ayn Rand novels. But, in spite of their relegation, like a dependable old friend the trains moved on, still offering their services to commuters and travellers despite the change in times. Sure, there were some cutbacks, but with budgets as they were and the onset of global stagflation, they did the best they could. Some of the best dry martinis, they say (whoever they are), were to be had in a dining car. And who could beat that view?

So it was for these commuters, rare though they were, to enjoy the countryside and pass their travel time in (what was left of) relative luxury across America. Inside elegant, wood-panelled (mostly veneer), temperature-controlled train cars, people from all walks of life (who could afford it but couldn't, or preferred not travelling by plane) mingled (cold and politely) in the (formerly) stately cars and talked about their (not unimpressive, but often decidedly average) lives. On occasion, however, things did get (relatively) exciting. Perhaps not to the degree that those old movies and novels breached but the slightest dose of Agatha Christie could change the tide of any (boring) cross-country commute.

One particular liner runs from Los Angeles to Chicago and back again, braving the Southwest in the most stark contrast to the pioneering days imaginable: In a comfortable, air-conditioned room, going East. On a trip of just over two days' time, daily does this zephyr trek across the United States, and upon this particular day did the very spirit of the Orient Express find its way on board.

A regular passenger, Bob Sweet--an ordinary man, of ordinary means, ordinary height (nearly), and ordinary receding hairline for a man of his age--would treat himself (on weekends where he was not needed to present himself or his kit of samples) by travelling between Los Angeles and Chicago upon the  _ Silver Streak _ , a fair liner on that luxury line that crosses the Southwest through the desert and up through the plains to Lake Michigan. The porters and waiters were used to his presence. He would greet them all by name, shake their hands, and then ask for his usual. A martini, easy on the vermouth, with two olives, one for each hundred pounds he carried around his waist. He made that joke himself, and had from the first trip established himself as a high-volume, nonthreatening figure, who would talk about the countryside and his supplements which he peddled across the West Coast and reported personally to the heads in Chicago over at quarterly conventions. In all regards, an ordinary man, who, on this trip, found himself bumping into an out-of-the-ordinarily surly individual.

"Oh, sorry, fella!" apologized the ordinary man. "Didn't mean to startle me. Or um, you. Far better to shake hands than bump keisters, I say. Name's Sweet. Bob Sweet."

Bob Sweet held out his ordinary, slightly pudgy hand to the surly gentleman. For his trouble, which he of course caused, he received a side-eye. Sweet felt a chill looking at the man; he seemed unusually cold for a man of his size. He was imposingly tall, with a wide mouth and a strong brow, and enough chin to match, his arms large enough for pants legs. Sweet wondered briefly who could possibly tailor that man's suit, a fine Italian silk number which likely measured a 55 tall. Sweet, of course, did not size up the man's legs, for propriety's sake, but reasoned that they must be proportionally matched to the rest of him. In all accounts the best he seemed to be hoping for was a broken hand from the handshake, of which he would have been assuredly grateful to receive.

Sweet stood there a moment in silence, clearing his throat, daring to speak again to the living statue. He was saved from this embarrassment by another man. A thin one, older, whose entire body would probably have fit in the large one's aforementioned coat sleeve. A weathered face with a small scar on his cheek made him seem a great deal older than he probably was, and he wore a white fedora, matching his other linen vestments well. He stepped aside the goliath and chided him softly.

"Come now, Reace," he cooed, greasily, "it was, after all, a simple mistake. Go ahead and shake the man's hand."

Reace, the not-so-gentle giant, took Sweet's hand in his, and gave him the best treatment he was expecting. And, as it turns out, he was grateful.

"Pleasure, Mr. Reace," croaked Sweet, wincing, "and I promise you, next time I won't be so shortsighted." He chuckled and looked the man up and down. "Hopefully that won't be too hard for me."

"I should hope so as well, Mr. Sweet," said the thin man, firmly reaching out a hand of his own. The look in his eye was one that told anybody in focus that they had better shake that hand, or there would be dire consequences.

Bob Sweet was by that point, rubbing his hand, making sure that he still had bones inside of it. He reluctantly removed his right hand from the loving embrace of his left, and withdrew before he could reach the thin man's outstretched one. He quickly stuffed it into his jacket and began to rifle around inside. The thin man's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Sweet's hand, his left hand reaching behind himself, slowly. Sweet, with some speed, drew his hand out and produced…

"Here, sir, my card." It was a simple one, off-white. Run-of-the-mill, below average thickness, some Goudy typeface. The lettering wasn't even raised. It could not have been at all costly to produce, and it almost certainly was not what the thin man expected. "Nice one, right? Company prints em for us by the box. Going to Chicago for some more. Guess they figure schlepping me there's cheaper than shipping them all the way to Los Angeles, right? Vitamin sales being such a competitive business and all. Sorry for passing on the handshake, though, just making sure I still have a hand. Your friend Mr. Reace has got quite a grip. What do you feed him? Woomph."

"He certainly has," said the thin man, relaxing his left hand from its place at the small of his back.

"Not great for my line of work either, I tell ya. Here, hang on. Let me get you a sample." Sweet pulled another thing from his pocket, clearly agitating the thin man again. He handed a little packet marked  _ Mister-E's Remed-E _ . "That's one of our best products right there, concentrated vitamin E complex. Great for men, helps the hair and the skin, maybe a little something for the old schw-"

"Whiney," the thin man spat, deadpan.

"...shwiney?"

"Whiney," he repeated.

"Who, you?"

" _ Whiney. _ "

"Me? Well I don't mean to be such a baby about the hand, but-"

"My  _ name _ is Whiney, Mr. Sweet."

Bob Sweet was caught off-guard. He laughed. "O-oh! Right, I see. Well, pleasure to meet you both. Guess I'll be seeing more of you… and plenty of him," he said, looking up the extra three feet between his height and Reace's head. "Long time to Chicago in a sardine can."

"Too long, Mr. Sweet. Excuse me, I need a smoke." Whiney produced a cigarette from behind his ear and placed it on his lips.

"Of course. So long, Mr. Whiney."

A very pregnant pause started, and lasted long enough that one would start asking when the due date was. Whiney stood pat with a stone face. Reace stood next to him with a stone  _ everything _ . Bob Sweet's eyes darted left and right. Whiney cleared his throat sternly and Sweet realized. He was blocking the exit. With one more quick apology, he patted Reace on the shoulder, and scootched past, withdrawing into the car and very probably another martini. This one, however, would probably be more warranted.

Whiney eyed Reace and nodded. Reace looked out into the car and watched Sweet as he disappeared like a vapor into the mist of inconsequentiality. Whiney stepped behind his big counterpart, studied Sweet's card for a moment, and opened the door. The sound of the wheels clacking beneath them entered, and the thin man stepped into the transom. He reached back into his pocket, produced a stately lighter, and touched a fresh flame to the corner of the business card. Stuffing the lighter away, he brought the burning card to his cigarette and took in a long drag.

"At least that little weasel is good for something," he whispered, snickering to himself as the door closed behind him. He watched the bland little card burn down to the ink as he took puff after puff until finally he released the charred rectangle to the wild. "Time to get to work…"

  
  


* * *

Over the sounds of the cars clacking and the engines puffing along one could barely distinguish the electric wheezing as from nowhere a phone booth materialized from thin air in the cargo compartment. When the sparks settled, the door unfolded, and from within a man, smartly but casually dressed in a sweater and tie, stepped out of it. He cast his big, sad eyes over the car, noting the crates and the bags, and then gave a listen to the world around him.

"A train. That makes sense," he said, as if it did to anybody but him. He folded the door to the phone booth neatly behind him and kept mindful bearings as he left the car, entered the transom, and started towards the paying passengers. He passed by a few seats, smiling at the old ladies and nodding at the middle aged as he continued on forward. Passing by one in particular he found his polite nod ineffective.

"Just a minute, sir," said this new man, a black man who was quite aged, of at least sixty years, wearing a black cap with the word "Pullman" emblazoned on the brim.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Good to see you." He reached out his hand and took the porter's into his own, shaking it firmly, like he was an old friend. For all the man knew he might have been, after having wandered around as long as he had. He smiled a kindly smile and turned to leave.

"Sir! One moment, please," called the porter back to him.

The man turned around a stopped a moment. Confusion set in his eyes, and he let out a "Yes?"

"I don't remember seeing you get on the train."

"...didn't you? I've been in the back, looking after something."

"No, sir, and I make a point to lay eyes on everyone who gets on this train from Los Angeles to Chicago."

"Oh. Right. I thought you had, see, I got on at the last stop…"

"The last stop? We're nonstop to Santa Fe!"

The man looked out the nearest window, made a thinking face, and nodded, "Yes, that's about right."

"You've been in the back for seven hours?"

"...yes."

"What were you doing back there?"

"...a scientific experiment. The equipment is all set now, it should be fine for the rest of the trip. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Ralston." He once again shook the porter's hand.

"But mister…"

"Doctor."

"Doctor Who?"

"That's right, see? You do remember me!" The Doctor leaned into Ralston's ear to whisper. "It was the World's Fair, I had a moustache then. I told you that you'd be in the rail business, you loved looking at the trains."

Porter Ralston looked stunned. The Doctor smiled his sad little smile, seeming genuinely fond of seeing Ralston again, though Ralston himself was stunned. The last World's Fair he was at happened over fifty years ago. Then the Doctor patted his shoulder and turned around, disappearing into the train.

And after he was gone, all Ralston could muster from the exchange was: "...holy Moses."

  
  


* * *

"Oh, it's you, Miss Smith. I was worried." The older man with frizzy gray hair sat back down in his seat. The woman who startled him smiled and entered the cabin, sliding the door shut behind her before taking a seat.

"Sorry to scare you like that, Professor. I knocked but it was so quiet I didn't think you were in here."

"Must've been gazing away at the desert. Remarkable, isn't it? Beautiful tracts of difficult climate. Good thing I'm not a biologist or I wouldn't enjoy it."

"And you might want to tell someone, the latch is a little tricky."

"I was wondering how it opened even after I locked it. That's not a welcome surprise. Would you mind locking it back up, if only for the sake of appearing more secure?"

She stood up quietly and jimmied the latch shut, sliding the door back and forth against it to make sure it was locked. Satisfied, she sat back down. "Anyway I'm glad you're here, Professor. I'm all ready and it's quieted down enough that maybe we can start talking about the article?"

"Oh, that blasted thing. Pity to bring business into all this." The Professor looked out the window. He seemed clearly cagey, as if he did not want to continue the interview. Miss Smith took notice.

"Maybe another time? We have a few days before we reach Chicago."

"Nono, that's quite all right. Might as well get it over and done with."

"Thanks, Professor. We'll make this one count." She pulled open her purse and produced a small Nagra tape recorder.

"Recording?" He seemed ill at ease again.

"It's just for me, this is a little easier to carry around than my typewriter."

"Oh, I see…" The Professor looked out the window again. Miss Smith connected a small microphone to the unit and brought it to her mouth.

"Sarah Jane Smith, the Times, interviewing Professor Arthur Schreiner about his new book, the Einstein Papers, and his upcoming lecture at the Institute, August 14, 1976. Tape one."

Professor Schreiner sat up. "D-did you say tape one?"

"Oh, don't worry. That's just in case of incidentals or I lose a label. I doubt we'll get that far, but sometimes I can get the most taciturn into tape three."

"Goodness, you really are a great reporter."

"Not really, I just listen. And make it easy to talk. You're more than welcome to, of course," she said, smiling.

"I'll consider it, Miss Smith, but just for you."

"I'm flattered. So Professor Schreiner, you've been working on the Einstein Papers for some time now."

"Oh yes, since… maybe a few years after his death."

"That would be about twenty-five years ago, then."

"That's right. A fan?"

"Minor aficionado; he was quite the man, after all."

"One of the greatest in theoretical physics. A wealth of knowledge, and we still feel his loss." Schreiner looked stricken with wanderlust and nostalgia, his eyes lazed back to the window.

"And carry on his work, I take it."

"Hm? Oh yes," he said, shifting in the seat, snapping back to reality. "He left behind quite a few threads, just for those of us who were close to him to discover."

"Discover? Is that why it took a few years after he died?"

"Yes, actually. A lot of work had to be done looking through his effects."

"So would you say you're something of an archaeological physicist then?"

The professor let out one quiet chuckle through his nose. She got him. "I suppose, but unlike archaeology alone that seeks a mere picture of the past, I hope to take Einstein's last works into the future."

"So I guess these papers have some paradigm-shifting discoveries in them."

"You'll have to wait and see. After the lecture I think it will all be clear." He smiled quietly--she didn't have as tight a grip as she thought.

"Then would it be pessimistic of me to ask?"

"That depends how you ask it, my dear."

"What are the Einstein Papers?"

"Hoo hoo," he giggled, looking left and right and producing an envelope from his jacket pocket. "These are the Einstein Papers. The genius of Albert Einstein and the humble scratchings of his…"

"Successor?"

"Procedent, perhaps. Something more humble."

"To coin a phrase? Or maybe a word."

"Yes, indeed. And yes, I do keep them on my person at all times. The security of the future of mankind rests with me now."

"Not to brag or anything, of course."

"Certainly not. This information will change everything."

"Well, since you won't tell me yet what's in them, and I can't just print a fluff piece with a transcript of the speech, can you give me a glimpse of what you think these papers will change?"

"I don't think, or even hypothesize, Miss Smith. I'm very certain. And it will be beyond reckoning. Beyond all our wildest dreams."

"You're that convinced?"

"Only inasmuch as protecting it is concerned. Once it is released, it won't be in my hands any more."

"Is there anything more specific you'd like to tell me?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. I might become boring and drone for hours…"

Sarah Jane reached back into her purse and produced two more reels of tape. "I wasn't lying before when I said tape one, Professor. Besides, I am a fan of your… antecedent."

"To coin a word."

"Right. So. You won't open the door until it's time but. What about the key? What's it look like?"

"A sheet of paper in a little envelope in my pocket. And what I kept up here." He tapped the side of his skull.

"Any other notes?"

"Chocolate and a hint of berry. But really no, only expect everything you know about physics and industry to be completely turned on its head, and perhaps even a few of life's greatest problems solved."

"Would you say economical, sociological, or just scientific?"

"All of the above, Miss Smith. And more."

The door opened suddenly. Both Schreiner and Miss Smith flinched, nearly jumping out of their skins. Outside the cabin stood a tall man in an immaculate pinstripe suit wearing a pair of brown aviator sunglasses, his hair was perfect, almost unnaturally so, in a stylish wavy part from the corner of his high forehead. He removed the glasses and revealed a heavy brow that shadowed his eyes. Upon doing so, Schreiner became relieved.

"Oh, Devereaux, it's only you…"

"Professor," replied the man, his voice slinky like wine and chocolate.

"Miss Smith, this is my associate Mr. Devereaux." Devereaux stepped into the cabin and extended a hand to her. She stood up and shook it, rather firmly, as if to prevent him from getting any smoother with her.

"Sarah Jane Smith. How do you do, Mr. Devereaux?"

" _ The _ Sarah Jane Smith? What a pleasure. I admire your work. A shame you move publishers so often."

"I might not be on the best terms with Old Man Hearst but I get by. Thank you." Devereaux's lip curled at the corner, then his eyes slinked over to the Professor, who suddenly found himself stricken with a single, pointed cough.

"Ahem. Erm, Miss Smith," stuttered the Professor, "would you excuse us? Devereaux and I have some business to attend to."

"Oh, of course, Professor, let me just collect my tape recorder and I'll be out of your way." She reached down and gathered her Nagra machine and purse, tucking them under her arm. With a brief smile and nod, she added, "We'll finish the interview sometime soon. Bye for now, Professor. Mr. Devereaux."

Scarcely before she could make it to the door, Devereaux stopped her. "Ah ah, Miss Smith."

"I beg your pardon?"

He reached out and his hand made its way under her shoulder. Neither of them broke eye contact as Sarah Jane stood pat and Devereaux smiled his devilish grin. After a loud  _ click _ and a sudden end to the quiet whirring, Devereaux removed his hand and returned it to his side.

"You run out of battery if you keep these things on, you know."

"...oh. Thank you, Mr. Devereaux. It must have slipped my mind."

"You're very welcome, Miss Smith."

"Yes, well… I'll leave you to your business. Goodbye." Sarah Jane quickly made her way out of the cabin and slid the door shut behind her, took a deep breath, then quietly made her way to her own quarters. Very probably, she thought, it was about time for a drink.


End file.
